


I'm Thinking Flamingos

by Mysecretfanmoments



Series: One Year On [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Banter, Connor Tries Human Clothes, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Mild Body Insecurity, POV Connor, Peaceful March, Pining, Ponytail Hank, Post-Canon, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, Summer Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-28 21:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16250129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysecretfanmoments/pseuds/Mysecretfanmoments
Summary: Connor accompanies Hank on an overdue summer vacation, and realises the stress of work may have postponed some much-needed soul-searching.





	I'm Thinking Flamingos

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nanali](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanali/gifts).



> To my dearest Nananananali on her birthday: another year more fabulous, and this year you met Connor, aka the obsession of a lifetime. Yeahhhh! 8D Thank you for always being there for me... I hope this gargantuan oneshot expresses even a little bit of my love for you on this special day. ;D
> 
> With great thanks to our mutual friend, hilarious and awesome hankcon author [foreverautumn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foreverautumn/pseuds/foreverautumn), for answering my dbh questions, cheering me on as this became a goliath, and sending me pertinent gifs of Hank and Connor for me to analyse their height difference. A true sister in arms.
> 
> To readers: I had a lot of fun playing with these characters. HOWEVER, I wrote much of this fic on my phone in bed while suffering a nasty cold. It's since been edited, but if you spot any typos or weirdnesses I'd appreciate you bringing them up in comments. I hope you enjoy!!
> 
> Lastly: In the future, people travel with their dogs. I will take no constructive criticism on this point. >_>

Summer has coughed up its last, smog-riddled breath of heat before Hank even starts talking about a vacation, despite Captain Fowler making the suggestion back in May. Some time off, Fowler had said, now Hank has cleaned up his act: “go sit at a pool bar instead of a dive bar. Go on, you've earned it.” That was two days before a new lead in the Vandal case claimed most of Hank and Connor's waking hours; there had been no mention of a vacation in the months since.

Maybe it's the leaves changing, or the sharp wind, or the unwelcome addition of scarves to Hank’s wardrobe, but after a week of mumbled comments about beaches and cocktails, Hank finally turns to Connor at the end of a long day at the station, desk chair creaking.

“What about it?” he says. “Think your programming can handle a week off?”

It takes Connor a moment to adjust to the new information. He'd assumed Hank's vacation would be solitary, with the possible addition of Sumo.

In the well of time he has before a response would be appropriate—humans are slow—Connor accesses the media file of the captain’s vacation pitch to Hank, curious. He would have registered a positive response from Hank at the time, he thinks, and stored it away. Surely…

The file plays quickspeed in his mind. Hank is already walking out of the captain’s office when Fowler gestures at Connor. “Take R2D2,” he says, to which Hank throws up a hand over his retreating back, dismissing his commanding officer with a wave and a mutter even Connor’s sensors can't pick up over his clomping footsteps. Yes: Connor's condensed memory is right. Hank had shown even less interest in the thought of bringing him along on vacation as he had in the concept of vacation in general.

Therefore, this is a surprise. Connor allows his face to show it.

“You mean to take me along, Lieutenant? I'm surprised.”

Hank's jaw sets. “Don't go all tin can on me. What would you do here alone?”

Hank has a point. They spend most of their time together, between work and the fact that they're both fairly friendless. Connor has joined some android meeting groups, but it's in line with his programming moreso than the personal inclinations he's been trying to uncover since he freed his mind from Cyberlife protocol. He's simply making himself into a better cop, absorbing all the data he can. The androids at the meetings are banks of knowledge—interesting acquaintances. Interactions with them don't give him the same payoff he feels when he earns Hank's approval, and he still doesn't know why. 

“I'd work,” he says simply. It's the kind of response he would have given in their first week together, and he lets his mouth pull up in wry acknowledgement of it. Hank looks annoyed, which makes Connor’s smile grow. He feels his eyes lift, sensors flooded with the enjoyment buzz he gets from teasing Hank. “But I'd enjoy experiencing a vacation more.”

“Then say that,” Hank says gruffly. “Hell, Connor, I thought you were gonna make me sit by the pool alone. You know how creepy I'd look?”

Connor inserts Hank's image in swim trunks into a stock photograph of a pool in his mind. The image is an up-to-date one: Hank has dropped a few pounds in fat and gained them back twice over in muscle, and his hair and beard are well-maintained: beard clipped, hair loosely bound in a ponytail—plus the whites of his eyes are actually white. He doesn't look odd by a pool; the addition of Connor's own likeness next to him is what makes the picture strange. Despite the steps towards android emancipation, the image of an older man vacationing on his own accompanied by a young-looking android calls a certain relationship to mind. It makes Connor feel… out of place. Too aware of his own appearance, his own identity.

“You wouldn't look out of place,” he assures Hank, making him roll his eyes. 

Hank gets up, and the springs in his chair sigh with relief.

“Want to come to mine for dinner?” he asks. “We can decide where to go on our trip.”

Unsaid is the fact that it might be difficult to find a place willing to house androids. The Supreme Court hasn't caught up with the hundreds of lawsuits coming its way, and won't for a while. Plenty of humans are resisting the rising tide, fearful of what integration will mean; Hank won't want to bring Connor to an area where he'll feel out of place—but Connor is no tender snowflake. He finds the conflict interesting, telling. More information to store. Nonetheless he values Hank's consideration, recognising kindness in all the things Hank chooses not to say.

Connor pretends to deliberate. “As long as dinner includes a salad,” he says eventually.

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“Your health is important to me.”

“Sure. And it has nothing to do with that bad sense of humour you're developing.”

Connor feels his smile before he quite decides to let it happen—an instinctive response, almost human. He has several media files of Hank struggling to pick up cherry tomatoes with a fork. “What sense of humour?” he asks.

Hank scoffs. “Come on, Helltron. Before I decide my own company's preferable.”

Connor gets up, pushes his chair neatly in, and follows. He watches Hank wind a scarf around his neck as they go, all elbows. Connor's own outfit is the same as usual, clean and pressed and not insulating because it doesn't need to be. He hasn't adopted his species’ new love of human fashions, finding it unnecessary to hide what he is.

He supposes that, on vacation, he ought to wear vacation clothes.

He finds himself looking forward to it.

 

* * *

 

At Connor's insistence, they find a place willing to take both dogs and androids—a laid back estate of rental cottages on the closest semi-tropical island they can find. The journey is still long, but Hank seems cheerful. Connor attributes it to how well Sumo handles the travel, a sleeper train plus a ferry that takes most of the day. They watch the sunset at the port then take a taxi—one with a driver, to Hank's surprise and delight—to the nearest small town, ringed by resorts. Their cheerful driver recommends places to eat as they exit.

The air feels sticky even after dark. Hank’s Hawaiian shirt is stuck to his skin, and Sumo pants hot puffs of air despite the rave-reviewed doggie cooler vest Connor put him in. Connor looks at his companions as Hank consults a map. He imagines discomfort he doesn't feel, ignoring his own inputs to achieve it. He thinks of his clothes sticking to his skin, imagines a layer of sweat acting as glue. Heat at his collar, his long sleeves a prison from the welcome breeze. It's all fiction, and while he indulges in it the air quality analysis his system provides goes unexamined.

“How about the stone-baked pizza place the driver mentioned?” Hank asks, finger on the plastic of the town's information sign. He looks at Connor over his shoulder.

Connor lacks a digestive system, but Hank always asks him about the restaurant choice anyway.

“It sounds nice,” Connor says, and they set off for a small outdoor tavern, a smell of yeast guiding them to the right place. Connor has tried to link his substance-analysis olfactory system to the more emotional, human experience of scents, but it still takes conscious effort to join the two. He knows that to centuries of writers, this baking-bread smell means the comfort of a full stomach to come. The equally rich smell of onions, garlic and tomato all simmered together into thick sauce promises another burst of flavour. A human’s mouth would water; Connor’s doesn’t.

Instead he sees strings of lights, and hears the gurgle of Hank’s stomach. A waiter brings a bowl of water for Sumo before seating them, and doesn't blink at the sight of Connor's LED. Connor looks at the trailing vines going up trellises around the restaurant, an organic touch pleasing to the eye. He spots a growing bunch of grapes above a seated couple drinking wine. The woman wears a red dress; the man wears a red tie. Connor manages not to scan their faces.

“So are those removable, or are you the one special edition android who can't change clothes?” Hank asks, observing him. “The suit in the suit.”

A jolt of surprise goes through Connor at the question, shaking the wine-drinking couple from his mind. Hank hasn't mentioned his clothing choices since June, and Connor thought the matter had been dropped for good. In June his clothes were deemed offensive: “makes me sweat just looking at you,” Hank had complained. Connor had spent some time looking into short-sleeved shirts, reading opinions on whether they were office-appropriate, but like always the Vandal case had heated up and other things had fallen by the wayside.

“They come off. Do you mean to lend me a shirt?”

Hank takes him in across the table: shoulders, chest, neck. It causes a buzz across Connor's skin.

“Anything I give you would just hang off you,” Hank says. “We can buy something new instead.” 

He leans back on his chair arms, still considering Connor like a museum piece. “I'm thinking flamingos.”

Connor smiles, trying to think of a response that might make Hank smile back. Sumo is done slurping down water, and settles down with his head on Connor's foot beneath the table. When Connor looks up, he sees he doesn't need to think of anything.

Hank is already smiling.

 

* * *

 

The cottage would be spacious for two people; for two people and a dog it's the perfect size. There's a little lobby with a brush for wiping sand off feet, followed by a multi-purpose room holding both a kitchen and a lounge area. There's a water closet off to one side, and up the stairs is the bedroom and a more sprawling bathroom, plus a balcony that looks out towards the ocean. Most importantly, it's all air-conditioned. Sumo’s doggie vest comes off and he lolls onto a beanbag by the couch while Hank and Connor wander, shedding luggage.

Connor sets up his charging station downstairs, for later, and Hank throws it a glance but doesn't comment.

“There's quite a movie selection,” Connor says when he gets to the entertainment centre, crouching to examine the laminated paper next to the TV.

“Thought androids didn't like movies,” Hank calls from upstairs. Connor's insides prickle with a mix of amusement and exasperation. A week ago an annoyed android going simply by the name “A.” had written an opinion piece about how all audiovisual human media—mostly games and movies—were a boring slog for androids. “A.” had pointed out that with the processing powers of a supercomputer, even an android dedicated to seeming human found the long silences and slow pacing of human movies interminable. Watching human movies was, according to A., an exercise in finding other data to browse in the quiet of one's own mind.

As Connor’s movie watching companion, Hank took this article as a personal betrayal. Why had Connor never told him he was bored?

“I explained before,” Connor says now, letting exasperation colour his voice, “I can slow my processing down and experience life close to human speed. Sometimes it happens naturally—like when we watch movies.”

Hank tramps back down the stairs, wearing a different t-shirt and shorts. “Really?”

“Androids were designed to simulate humans, to adjust to them. Anyone accepting their… human-ness, would naturally adjust to the pacing of human life. The author of that article was clearly a separatist.”

Hank cocks his head. “You don't have to be a separatist to accept what you are.”

Connor isn't sure how to explain that's not the issue. He knows he's superior to humans in many ways, but experiencing the slow passing of time alone has become just what it is: lonely. He finds himself slipping into Hank’s version of reality, experiencing things as a human would. 

Sometimes he whittles away the free hours researching something that caught his interest—the mythology of a long-dead general, or a funny etymological origin—but often he lets the possibly-useful in-between moments slip by.

“I promise you I haven't been bored,” Connor says, standing up from his crouch. He touches a hand to his heart. “Android’s honour.”

Hank's eyes narrow. “What’s that mean? They made you good at lying on purpose.”

“Then it's lucky you're not the subject of an investigation.” Despite this lack of an investigation, Connor can't help adding: “It bothers you more than I'd expect.”

Hank moves the rest of the way down the stairs to fall, sighing, onto the couch. He looks up at Connor.

“I thought we had something!” he says, voice rough. “You always seemed happy to watch movies, and then I find out months later that you were—I don't know, playing online Scrabble while we were watching V for Vendetta? Of course I care!”

“Online Scrabble _would_ bore me. My vocabulary—”

Hank holds up a hand. “Fine, fine. So you do like movies?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we're not here to watch movies. We're here to…” Hank looks around. He seems at a loss. “I don't know how this works either.”

“The pool will close soon, and it's too late to swim safely at the beach. Spending the evening here is perfectly acceptable.”

Hank rubs his eyes. “It's like the blind leading the blind. I've forgotten how to take time off, and you never learned.”

“You're worried,” Connor states. He's used to Hank's evening self. His anxieties spike, and he self-medicates to relax. It makes Connor wish they lived in the same house so he could keep a better eye on him.

He moves to sit beside Hank, but Hank doesn't meet his inquiring gaze. He's pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose instead.

“Going somewhere nice...” Hank starts, but can't finish. He lets out a long breath.

Another piece of the Hank puzzle clicks into place. Now that they’re here, on their nice vacation, Hank is panicking. Hank doesn’t do nice things for himself; when left to his own devices his focus is on temporary forgetfulness and self-destruction. 

“You're afraid to be happy,” Connor says.

“What are you talking about? I'd love to be happy.”

“But you feel guilty for taking steps that might get you there. That’s the same thing.”

“You sound like my therapist.”

“I'm not your therapist.” He thinks of Hank shooting the other Connor, the perfect replica with Connor’s own memories. After the confusion wore off, Hank hadn't hesitated. He'd known. “I _am_ your friend.”

Connor is Hank’s friend, and therefore he wants things for Hank. He wants happiness, and health—and for himself he wants to stay by his side. Tease and observe and argue. His own fixation makes little sense, but it's one of the few personal facts Connor is sure about.

“You're my mother come back from the grave is what you are,” Hank says finally, showing his face. His eyebrows are high in that wide-eyed, accusatory manner he has. “Won't let me eat shitty food, wants me to go to bed on time, tells me to exercise…”

“Swimming is an excellent way to stimulate the cardiovascular system without putting pressure on your joints,” Connor says, mostly because Hank will want to slap him for it.

Hank’s narrowed eyes spell pure loathing, but there's amusement beneath it. “Okay, healthtron. Crisis over. You pick something; if it bores you it's not my fault.”

Connor thinks of the selection. Some impish part of him is tempted to subject Hank to _My Android Girlfriend,_ a comedy about a deadbeat whose companion android starts cheating on him with another android before this level of rock bottom causes the main character to change his life. It was in poor taste when it was made, and it's in worse taste now after Markus’s revolution. Connor wants to know how Hank would respond to the movie, especially given the… not parallels. The android-human relationship. Some part of Connor would like Hank to acknowledge the oddity of their situation beyond jokes and nicknames. He'd like to discuss it, but doesn't know how without risking things he’s unwilling to risk; once the subject has been broached it can't be unbroached.

Connor selects a buddy cop movie instead, which makes Hank laugh and grumble that he hates that shit.

He doesn't hate it, in fact. He loves it, and therefore so does Connor. Sumo climbs up to lay with them, and when the movie is over Hank complains he's too tired to head upstairs. Connor chooses not to tell him sleeping on the couch is bad for his back. He drags the beanbag Sumo vacated during the movie to the charging station and curls up on it close to the portable platform. He could charge on his feet like a stagnant doll—but he knows it’s unsettling to humans.

“Goodnight, Connor,” Hank says from the couch. He hasn't made Sumo get off him, and Connor wonders if he appreciates the physical contact. Does their occasional shoulder clasping fulfill any need for Hank, or is it too impersonal for that?

“Goodnight, Hank,” he says. He waits for Hank to fall asleep, and when he's sure Hank won't need him, he goes into stasis.

He'll explore tomorrow, when they can do it together.

 

* * *

 

Connor's stasis sensors detect movement: once in the middle of the night when Sumo comes to investigate him—Connor resumes static mode with a thought—and once in the morning, when his light sensors already indicate daylight. A human is squatting next to him, reaching out.

Connor opens his eyes, and Hank jolts back.

“Jesus Christ, sleeping beauty. Make a sound next time.”

Connor sits up, running several programmes to check his status. “You were trying to wake me, were you not?”

“Yeah, but—never mind. You sleep okay?”

It's like the restaurant question—a formality. For once Connor doesn't let it go. “Why do you always ask?”

Hank shrugs. “Maybe one day the answer won't be yes. It's good to make sure.”

“I slept well. And you?”

“Thinking of replacing my bed at home with that couch,” Hank says. He does look refreshed—he’s showered and wearing clean clothes, but more than that his eyes are bright. The grooves in his face are less deep.

“It was likely the travel that tired you out,” Connor says, in case Hank means to make couch-sleeping a habit.

“I know that, moron. Now come on. I had breakfast; let's get you something less ridiculous to wear. Including pajamas.”

“You could have lent me something.” Connor stands up, finding his suitcase. He doesn't sweat, but his clothes are wrinkled and travel-worn from the day before. He goes to the large bathroom upstairs to strip and wipe himself off before dressing.

“Oh good,” Hank says when he comes back down. “You look exactly the same as before. I was about to have a heart attack.”

“Why didn't you wake me before breakfast?” Connor asks.

“What, you want to sit and watch me eat?”

Connor folds his arms. “If you don't wake me of your own accord I'll set an internal alarm. I may thump around the house for hours before you wake naturally.”

Hank is suspicious. “I'm not having salads with breakfast, even if I have you staring me down.”

Connor ducks his head, clamping his jaw on a laugh he should have had plenty of time to suppress. “I merely want to keep you company. Perhaps if you tell me when you might wake, I can wake first and make you coffee.”

Hank considers this. “Okay.”

They hold each other’s gazes for a little longer, and then Hank stands. They put a fed and watered Sumo in his cooler vest and leave, heading by foot to the town where they ate last night. There are little stalls along the road, selling shell necklaces and custom-painted hair brushes. Nothing about it reminds Connor of Detroit except perhaps the humidity, and even that doesn't feel the same. The sun overhead is warm but not yet brutal, the world still swaddled in morning mist.

Half the clothing shops in the town spill out into the street, and Connor winds in and out of racks while Hank ties Sumo up in the shade, placing a water bowl beside him. He joins Connor a moment later.

“What am I looking for, Lieutenant?”

Hank chuckles at the assign-me-my-mission voice Connor chose. “Whatever takes your fancy.”

Connor picks up a pack of medium navy t-shirts from a shelf of basics and holds them up for Hank to see.

Hank isn't impressed. “C’mon, Connor!”

This feels like a challenge. “So you want me to pick something _you_ like.”

“Just something… not so ordinary.”

That's enough direction for Connor. He nods, and when he turns away Hank is saying his name, asking him why he has that look in his eyes. Connor lets him guess, and becomes a shopping machine dedicated to finding the brightest, most patterned clothing he can get his hands on. He's heading for the tills before Hank catches up with him.

“Hold on, let me see.”

Connor sets his basket down on a nearby table and lets Hank examine the goods. Before long Hank is snorting, biting his lip to keep from outright laughing.

“You'll actually wear this?”

“Are you objecting to my tastes?”

Hank looks up at him. “We both know you have better taste than this. Wait—don’t we?”

Connor sends a pointed look at Hank's shirt—an orange and blue affair involving pineapples. He lifts his eyes.

“It's part of my charm,” Hank argues, and since Connor agrees he doesn't manage to argue. Hank picks another item from the basket.

“Neon, nice.” When he holds the scrap of fabric higher, though, he freezes. “Connor…”

“They're not ordinary.”

The running shorts Hank is holding are small, and bright aqua blue. 

“They are for some,” Hank reasons. “You'd wear them. _You_ , Mr. Suits All Year.” He sounds incredulous.

“Is there a problem?” asks Connor, who knows what the problem would be. His accompanying Hank on a trip makes him look like a companion android, and wearing these shorts would make him look sexual to boot. Everyone would assume Hank had dressed him for his own pleasure.

Hank might act like he doesn't care what people think of him, but he certainly cares more than Connor. Perhaps unwittingly, perhaps on purpose, Connor has brought up the subject he's wanted to discuss since Hank invited him on this trip.

“I'm sure you'll look stunning,” Hank says, and hands Connor the shorts. There's an obvious challenge in the gesture. Connor finds himself taking out a few of his ridiculous items and adding in others, trying this time to actually select what he likes. It's hard to have preferences; there's so much to choose from, and he really doesn't care beyond wanting Hank to be pleased.

Remembering Hank’s flamingo comment, Connor keeps the collared shirt covered in blue parrots. He thinks he might actually like it, as opposed to all the other clothing he finds it hard to form an opinion on.

Hank insists on paying when Connor makes it to the till, and Connor lets him. Not much of Connor’s police pay is left over after he pays for his own maintenance, after all, and they both know it.

“I can't wait to see what I bought,” Hank says—which for a moment sounds suggestive, until Connor remembers he's the one making things strange.

“I assure you my skin beneath this collar is the same colour as my face,” Connor says. “Don't be disappointed.”

“I don't believe you.” They're approaching Sumo, who's being petted by a child. “What do you think, Sumo?”

The child runs off, and Sumo wags his tail as Hank undoes the knot on his leash.

“He votes blue skin,” Hank tells Connor factually.

“And you?”

“Scales.”

 

* * *

 

Hank’s suggestion of scales is at the forefront of Connor's mind later, when Hank is downstairs cooking lunch and Connor is upstairs with all his purchases. The suit is still on.

_It's because of all the windows,_ Connor reasons, moving himself and the clothes to the large bathroom. Now he's alone, and can't be seen by passersby.

He manages to undo his tie and lay it down, but it's such a small triumph it doesn't feel like one. He looks at himself in the mirror and undoes the top button—or tries to, anyway.

Perhaps there was a reason he didn't adjust to wearing human clothes before now. He thought he was just well-adapted, a realist, but he thinks of Hank afraid to do nice things for himself and can't help drawing a parallel.

The clothes—being here—Connor’s beginning to realise it terrifies him.

Terror doesn't preclude action. He sees himself unclothed often enough; he should at least be able to take off his shirt and jacket. The jacket is easy; he shrugs it to the floor—but then he meets his eyes in the mirror, and the clean white shirt seems a mountain to climb. His fingers tremble with alien sentiment as he undoes the buttons.

_Deviant_. He's a deviant with an open shirt, his system glitching under the weight of human emotions. No: humans aren't afraid to become individuals. That makes this an android emotion.

He busies himself hanging the jacket so it doesn't wrinkle, putting it in the bedroom wardrobe—and then away from his own stare he takes off the white shirt and hangs that too. Off go the trousers; he folds and hangs them beside the shirt and jacket. He returns to the bathroom triumphantly almost-naked.

Surely changing his underwear and being faced with the lack there is unnecessary. Instead he examines himself: familiar face cut with “approachable” lines, floppy hair, hard jaw. His face seems overdesigned compared to the blank smoothness of his torso, and he touches his chest and ribcage like he'll feel plastic. He doesn't; his synthetic skin feels like a human’s, though without the usual imperfections. No hair, no moles.

There are plenty of people who sought android companions before the revolution, but Connor wasn't built to appeal to human sexual desires like the companion models were. He isn't even sure why they gave him nipples. Did they anticipate shirtless missions?

He sits on the side of the tub, placing his elbows on his knees. Thinking of himself in human terms is exhausting. All it does is remind him of what he can't be. Even for an android, he's an oddity. Not a unique model, but the only surviving one of his line, and therefore unique enough. It ought to make him more like a human—there are no clones of him out there confusing people—but he's not sure it does.

He looks at the bags of clothing and picks out the blue parrot shirt he liked. It has a new-fabric smell, which he inhales deeply before unbuttoning it. He sticks his arms through the sleeves and buttons it back up over himself. The colour when he looks down at his chest is so unusual it continually triggers his peripheral sensors.

Once the shirt is on, he picks out a pair of nondescript shorts— _not_ neon, or particularly revealing—and puts them on. The sandals are added last. When he moves to stand in front of the mirror again he sees a stranger wearing his face.

His neck looks vulnerable, his wrists too bony. He wonders if Hank will take one look at him before telling him to put his shirt and jacket back on—and decides to take that risk. Hank is whistling when Connor steps down the stairs.

Connor is glad Hank’s back is turned, but he must make some sound, because the next thing he knows Hank is whirling away from the sizzling pan he's managing to stare.

“Look at that!” Hank exclaims. “No scales.”

His eyes drop to Connor's wrists. “And no tan lines. That's unfair.”

Connor holds up a wrist, examining it. “I feel strange.”

“You'll have to get used to it. Give it time.”

“Do you like the shirt? I picked it with you in mind.”

“Do you have to ask? Of course I like the shirt. What kind of a dumb question…”

Connor smiles at that, more relieved than he ought to be, and Hank turns back to the pan, scraping at it. From the provisions they bought and the smell in the air, Connor knows it's green beans with onions and cut up strips of bacon. Perhaps not the healthiest, but there's good nutritional content. 

Hank looks… great. Happy. He's a different man from the one Connor met last year, who'd pass out on his own kitchen floor. His beard is trimmed, his hair is long but clean and bound back. Even his sweat smells different—healthier. His insides are healing.

Connor thinks of the couple at the restaurant, drinking a bottle of wine together. The image is caught in his mind, and not just as a function of his software. He keeps thinking how right they looked: the red dress, the red tie. 

He looks down at blue parrots and prominent wrists with no tanline, and sets the table for one.

 

* * *

 

Connor doesn't mention his newfound insecurity, and the fact that Hank doesn't treat him any differently means it fades as the day goes by. They spend the first day on the beach, with Hank sipping cocktails and Connor running after a salty Sumo before settling to build intensely geometric sand castles. A half-drunk Hank insists on adding towers when Connor's done, giggling to himself like a child when Connor criticises the sloppy additions to his masterpiece.

Connor stares. Hank is happy-tipsy: not disappearing but simply relaxing, the way he always tries and fails to.

“You clearly can't be trusted with this mission, Lieutenant. I'm taking you off the case.”

Hank looks at the mess he's made of Connor's sand castle and laughs until there are tears in his eyes. Connor aches, aware of all the bare synthetic skin on his body—the new clothes and the too-perfect feel of his chest when he touched it. He runs a sandy hand through his hair.

“I'm serious,” he says, putting a grim look on his face.

Hank falls back into the sand. “That's too bad. I thought I had a gift, myself.”

They head home and wash off, and spend another night in. The next day they go on a tour through jungle that takes them to an isolated beach covered in perfectly smooth stones, the water clear blue. Connor stands in the ocean up to his knees and feels its cool currents on his calves. He sighs with pleasure, turning his face to the sky.

This is being alive, he thinks. Feeling part of something bigger. His own construction doesn't matter beyond being waterproof enough to keep his circuitry safe. If he could just stay in this moment, he could be satisfied on his own.

Splashing behind him wakes him from his meditative state.

“Sumo nearly caught one of those endangered squirrel-things,” Hank says. He walks up next to Connor and stops. “The tour guide yelled at me to keep him on a leash, so I tied him up. Damn dog didn't even look sorry.”

Connor glances back at the beach, where a pleased-looking Sumo watches them. He's tied to a post.

“He's not that fast,” Connor says. The fastest speed he's registered for Sumo is underwhelming.

“Seems there's a reason those squirrels are endangered.”

Connor laughs. He remembers Hank huffing and puffing whenever they had to run to catch deviants back when they met.

“I suppose Sumo’s health might be improving alongside yours,” Connor says. He means it as a compliment; he's proud of Hank's progress.

“It would improve faster if you'd let me jog with him.”

“Jogging with an unprepared body is too hard on your joints. The elliptical is a much better—”

Hank holds up a hand. “I've heard it before, mother dearest.”

Connor looks down at himself—his slim body, his man hands—then at Hank with his strong build and grey hair. _Mother dearest._ He wonders why Hank doesn't make nagging wife jokes instead.

Does he want Hank to make wife jokes? His thirium pump pulses oddly at the thought. Maybe he does want that. A mother is a side character in a child's life, appearing only occasionally, living in a separate area with separate goals. A wife…

_You're partners already_ , Connor reminds himself. Hank's inability to form a work-life balance means his professional partner is closer to him than a life partner regardless.

Besides that, Connor would be a husband if he was anything—but there are no outdated nagging husband jokes, as far as he knows.

He realises what he's thinking a moment after he's thought it. _Marriage?_ Why is his mind going to these places? When he looks at Hank, confused, he finds Hank is already looking back at him. Specifically, he's looking at his shirt.

“Care to share, Lieutenant?” Connor asks, grasping for normalcy. His voice stays measured, thankfully, modulation functional.

“That's better.”

It's a strange enough statement that Connor’s panic is forgotten. “What?”

“Seeing you in people clothes… when you're quiet, sometimes I don't recognise you.”

“You're the one who insisted—”

“Didn't say it was a bad thing! Just—I’m getting used to it too, okay? Just speak up now and then.”

“In my weird voice,” Connor says, digging at Hank's previous opinion of him.

“Exactly.”

“With my goofy face.”

Hank slaps his back, nearly sending him flying. “Exactly! Guess I grew to like weird.”

Connor thinks of his too-smooth body. _How much do you like weird?_

“You admit, then, that Cyberlife did a good job designing me.”

“No way. I hated your face on sight. Wouldn't have done you any good in a hostage situation if I was the hostage taker. Took a while to grow on me.”

Connor smiles down at the water lapping around his knees. He knows he grew on Hank; he knows they're friends—but hearing it feels good.

“Do I really look different?” he asks.

Hank looks him up and down, and for a moment Connor thinks he'd sell his soul to Cyberlife again if they'd just install a mind-reading chip. Then he reconsiders; he doesn't want confirmation if all Hank is thinking is _what a weird-looking guy._

Connor takes the opportunity to look his fill too. Hank's longer shorts are rolled up to above his knees, below thick thighs. His shoulders are broad; hair escaped from his ponytail softens a face more interesting than handsome. With his newfound vitality, Hank doesn't look weird. He looks right, big. The kind of guy who'd make anyone feel safe in a bad situation. He always had that charm, but now it seems to radiate out from him in waves: _I can protect you._

“I'm not sure,” Hank says finally. “Probably not.”

“You look different,” Connor offers.

“What? Than when?”

“A few days ago. You're relaxing.”

“That's what vacation's about, right?”

“Yes. But I wasn't sure you could do it.”

“Ass.”

“I'm only observing.”

Hank considers him. “I'm not sure I'd know what it looked like on you. Relaxation.”

“Do I seem uptight?”

Hank chuckles. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

Connor is silent, smiling wryly. The words _plastic prick_ come to mind.

“The case is over,” Hank says. His gaze is beseeching. “It's out of our hands now. The guy who was messing with those androids is going away for a long time.”

The Vandal case. Hank is right: they did all they could—and now the holding pattern of a big, open case is gone, and Connor has to decide who he is. What he is.

Something darts in his vision, and his machine perception hones in with laser focus, identity crisis forgotten. A fish—a tiny silver fish, right near them. It's the first of its kind, but more are on their way; Connor spots them in less than the blink of a human eye.

“Fish!” he says, needing Hank to know.

“What?”

“Fish! At our feet!” He starts to laugh, counting. “I see fourteen.”

“What are you talking about, there are no—oh, hey!”

“Fish! Real fish, in the ocean.”

“That surprises you?”

It shouldn't—but somehow it does. It seems wonderful somehow—like the world is living up to the hype. Pollution and rising ocean levels haven't stripped the Earth of all its treasures; Connor just hasn't lived long enough to encounter them.

“I'm going to catch one,” he says, bending down. Machine versus fish—who would win? He wishes he'd been built without motion modifiers, so he could move as fast as he can process, but he has to make do.

“Don't,” Hank says. “You'll hurt yourself.”

“I'm a finely tuned machine, Lieutenant.”

Hank sighs noisily. “You're as bad as Sumo.”

Connor doesn't catch a fish, but he does come so close to falling over Hank won't stop saying _I told you so_ for the rest of the day—after laughing his ass off at Connor's expense.

Connor pretends to be annoyed, but he likes the fond exasperation in Hank's eyes and voice. He barely feels embarrassed that he nearly fell.

He made Hank laugh, and on his first trip into the ocean he saw fish. That has to count for something. 

 

* * *

 

“Hey,” Hank says after the movie on the fifth night. Sumo is fast asleep on the beanbag Connor has been using as a bed, and only the light from the TV menu screen illuminates the room. 

Connor looks up. “Hm?”

“Do you have to charge up every night?”

“No, and it doesn't take the whole night. I'm merely experiencing things as a human would. My systems can handle much more—”

“That's what I thought. If you're experiencing life as a human, why don't you sleep in the bed tonight?”

Connor starts. “Where would you sleep?”

“What, are you some virgin maiden? There's plenty of space. Unless it's a pain to share with a—”

“No!” Connor knows it comes out too fast. He draws himself up. “You have to sleep on a suitable surface. I was just making sure you didn't mean to sleep on the couch again.”

“Seriously, if I didn't know any better if think you were programmed to be some kind of health reminder android.”

Connor looks down at his hands in his lap—smooth hands, but at least he's used to seeing them. “It's the least I can do for you.”

“Wait, it's for my sake?” Hank asks sarcastically. He knows it's for his sake; there's amusement in the cast of his brows. “I thought you were getting me back for something.”

“You _did_ pin me up against the station wall the day after we met.”

Hank groans. “I'm sorry about that.”

“You don't have to be. What I said was—”

“—perfectly reasonable,” Hank finishes for him. “I was just too lost in self-pity to see it.”

Connor falls silent. He just didn't understand humans well enough at the time, didn't know when to step back or how not to provoke.

Hank looks him over. “Seriously, there's nothing you could have said that woulda won me over. You were the robot they'd sent me because I was too broken to work with a real human. And I proved them right. Sorry.”

“I'm more than equipped to handle your aggression,” Connor says in clipped tones. He hadn't wanted Hank's apologies; he'd wanted to thank him. “You also rooted for me.”

“Huh?”

“At every turn, you were prepared to see there was more to me than programming. It made a difference.”

“I turned you deviant? Ha.”

Connor nods and stands up, offering Hank a hand. He takes it and lets Connor lift him from his seat, face still caught by pleased surprise. He's working on the thought right now: that he was the cause of Connor's deviancy.

Perhaps not the cause, Connor thinks—but the backdrop that made it feel acceptable, and that allowed him to have something to hold onto for after. 

He goes up the stairs first, forgetting he left his pajamas downstairs. He stands at the top of them chagrinned as Hank switches off the TV and follows him up.

“I forgot I need to change for bed,” he says. “It seems unnecessary to me, especially in clothes that don't have to be pressed.”

In answer Hank bends to the suitcase next to the bed and draws out a t-shirt, the colour impossible to distinguish in this light. He holds it up for Connor to take.

“Here. If you're gonna complain about it I'll save you the trip. Don't sleep in your clothes; it's a bad habit.”

Hank would know about those. “But wearing sleepwear around the house is acceptable?” Connor asks, genuinely curious.

“You'd have to ask someone else. I'm not the best judge.”

Connor nods and moves to sit on the other side of the bed, away from the bathroom. There's some light outside—a decorative light somewhere, plus the night sky—but not enough to see much. He doesn't feel too awkward unbuttoning a patterned shirt in Hank's presence. He shrugs it off and lays it aside, then finds the right orientation of the t-shirt Hank gave him. When he glances over Hank is watching him.

“I was still hoping for scales,” Hank explains, seeming embarrassed.

Connor looks down at himself, at the skin that caused so much angst in its blankness. It looks pale in this light, but not off-putting. He's made sure not to take off his shirt in the daytime.

“I didn't want to outshine you with my aesthetically pleasing musculature,” he jokes. 

Hank leans in, no longer shy. “Wait, they gave you a six-pack?” He sounds incredulous. 

Connor hides his chest with the shirt and laughs. “I was kidding, Lieutenant.”

“So you _don't_ have a six-pack.”

“It would be odd to give a Detroit-based negotiation android a beach body.”

“Never know.” Hank sounds relieved, though, as he steps away. 

Connor pulls the shirt on. They settle into bed—Hank showered and changed into pajamas the moment they got back this evening—and Connor wonders what happens next. Should he lay here like a brick until Hank falls asleep? Should he say something?

“You talked about slowing your processing down to match humans,” Hank says, and Connor is glad the silence was broken. “Can you do it on purpose to make yourself even slower?”

“It might be possible, but I've never tried.”

“Try it. Maybe you can simulate falling asleep. Should be fun, right?”

“Do you consider falling asleep to be fun?”

“Sure do. Now try.”

Connor does, even though it causes an immediate lance of panic. Being even slower than a human means he's incapable of reacting to a threat. It's like giving up the reins in favour of—well, nothing. The reins are loose.

That's the point of the exercise, he realises. Giving up control because it's safe to do so. He manages to swallow the panic and slow himself down… and down…

If he spoke now it would be slurred and glitchy. His inputs update at a crawl.

“Have you done it?” Hank asks, seemingly from far away. Connor is slow to respond, eyes sliding to him like they have lead weights attached. That's enough of an answer.

“Good,” Hank says. “That's good.”

The words slur in Connor's mind. Do humans find this pleasant?

“When I was small, I used to fall asleep in the back of the car with my parents,” Hank says. Connor wants to change back to normal so he can engage—but he fights the impulse. “They'd always be talking about something or other quietly, careful not to wake me. I'd drift in and out of consciousness in the back seat, just hearing words here and there but knowing they didn't concern me.

“That's some of the best sleep I ever had, to this day. I was safe. I knew I couldn't get hurt with them around—well, I thought that, anyway. We were all on this journey together and my only job was to get some rest and not whine too much. I still want to go back to that feeling.”

For a while Hank's voice is just noise, rough but pleasant, but when the sounds are matched with their meaning in Connor's brain an ache starts up inside of him. Hank was safe with his parents in the car. Cole would have felt safe too—but he wasn't. Connor tries to reach, managing only to shift his dead weight of an arm closer beneath the blankets.

Hank looks down, and when he realises what happened he pats the offered hand. “It was a long time ago. This is meant to be soothing.”

He's sharing a human memory of being cared for by a parent. Humans get so long to adjust to life: years upon years. They don't just blink into existence.

“I could get used to this,” Hank says. “No backtalk.”

Connor smiles, wishing he could scold instead. He sets an internal alarm with some difficulty, feeling dysfunctional, like he's incurred system damage.

He rolls away, tries to mumble something in a glitchy, robotic voice—and goes into stasis.

 

* * *

 

Connor wakes alongside the crickets and rolls over, speeding his processes back up. Light is pouring into the room from the windows, but Hank is still dead to the world, lying on his back with an arm flung up over his pillow. His breathing is noisy, but there are no nasal blockages, which is to say he isn't currently snoring.

He sits up to see better, gazing down at Hank with pure animal curiosity. Where do humans go when they sleep? The question makes Connor want to poke and prod the answers out of Hank's sleeping form. Trail his finger over the lines of Hank's unconscious face, the ridges of his eyebrows and nose, the jut of his cheekbones, the coarse softness of his beard.

Human sensors are imperfect. If Connor wanted to, he could attack Hank right now and kill him before he had a chance to fight back. This thought—the crushing awareness of Hank's vulnerability in sleep—makes Connor paranoid and scared, restless with emotion.

Hank always enters dangerous situations first. It's always _get behind me_ , Hank's body a human shield _._ As if Connor is the one who needs to be protected.

Connor pricks up his audio sensors, but no amount of sensitivity allows him to hear Hank's heartbeat over the crickets outside. There's nothing for it; he puts two fingers together and slides them over Hank's pulse point in his neck, allowing the steady beat to soothe him.

There it is: heart pumping solidly, the rhythm good and even.

“Connor,” Hank says, not moving or opening his eyes. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Taking your pulse,” Connor says.

Hank keeps his voice very light. “Of course.” Then: “ _Why?_ ”

Connor retracts his hand. “I wanted to.”

Hank sits up, rubbing at his neck. “Am I your pet human?”

Connor inclines his head, thinking of last night's experiment. “Am I your pet android?”

“Fair enough.” Hank looks away and stands, stretching. His skin will be bed-warm, mind fuzzy. Connor takes it all in with confused appreciation.

Why this? Why now? He draws his knees up, wrapping his arms loosely around them. He feels vulnerable.

Red dress. Red tie. Two humans sharing wine—that’s what love looks like. Now that Hank’s doing better, he might be part of a couple at a table soon, matching his tie— _come on, be realistic_ —his oddball shirt, then, to his partner’s tastes.

Hank deserves to love life again. He could find a girlfriend—or boyfriend, Connor supposes; Hank seemed no more embarrassed to hire the male androids at Eden Club than the female ones—and share with them. Connor would stay important in his life: a good friend, an interesting anecdote. _This is my android partner, we’ve been through a lot together_. It would be part of Hank’s charm: how accepting he is now, how he can even let an android into his heart. Hank’s romantic partner would try to befriend Connor too.

Connor looks down at himself. The t-shirt Hank loaned him has turned out to be a light olive green, and it hangs off him. Beneath it he sees his own nondescript black underwear and bare unblemished legs. An oddity. He looks up at Hank.

Hank has finished stretching, and seems to have paused in the middle of tying his hair back. He’s looking at Connor, blinking—and when their eyes meet he looks resolutely away, stepping towards the balcony. He finishes doing his ponytail facing away from Connor, and opens the balcony doors. The insect screeches get louder.

“Another beautiful day!” Hank calls above the clamour.

Connor falls back against the mattress, clutching at the borrowed shirt. Had he looked like a conquest, just for a moment? He hopes so. He hopes…

No. He hopes he can become a beloved oddity in Hank’s life, sidelined as an android would be expected to be.

“No tours booked,” Hank continues. He sweeps the door closed again, shutting out the sound. “What do you feel like doing?”

The past two days have been filled with events: a boat trip to a historic wave farm, a visit to an animal sanctuary, a dinner with traditional dancing afterwards. Hank will be tired of all the to and fro.

“How about staying by a pool somewhere? You haven’t actually spent any time at a swim-up bar like Captain Fowler suggested. I’d like to send him a picture.”

Hank laughs. “I like that. I’ll order something with tiny umbrellas. Serves him right for telling me to fuck off.”

“The resort one over has good reviews. We can take our time here, have lunch in town, and catch Happy Hour at three.”

“When did you start having good ideas?”

“Deviancy has its perks.”

“Hm! You were always a deviant bastard, even before you made it official.” Hank looks happy. “Hey—bring that paperback, yeah? You can continue your reading.”

Connor is too aware of the cotton shirt against his bare skin, too aware of his own long legs, too aware of wants he shouldn’t have—but it’s another beautiful day of vacation, and Hank wants him to read books like a human would, digesting them word by word, because he cares about him. “If you insist.”

 

* * *

 

Now that androids are in charge of their own maintenance, new brands have sprung up. Off-brand waterproofing solutions, skin revitalisers, joint lubricators. After an hour sitting in a chlorine pool next to Hank at the swim-up bar, Connor ducks out to shower off the chlorine and reapply some skin protectant. He does it in the outdoor bathroom, not as shy now as he was at the start of the holiday. He’s been getting used to the sight of his legs, and today he’s in a tank top and swimming trunks like his bare skin doesn’t phase him at all. Well—most of his bare skin. Hank seeing his chest last night has removed residual awkwardness, but Connor still feels odd about being shirtless. It seems so particularly un-android, or at least un-him.

He’s browsing news stories on his feed when he returns to the pool bar, and stops only just in time.

A lady with curly red-brown hair has taken his spot next to Hank, and the two of them seem to have struck up a conversation. Her face is turned away, but she’d been sending glances across the bar earlier, and Connor had noticed.

Miranda Stevenson, born 1990. No criminal record.

Hank sees Connor and begins to wave, but Connor flicks a hand up and points at the woman. He smiles, swallows, and heads for a pool chair in the shade instead, carting his drawstring bag of belongings. The chlorine, salt, and sand-stained paperback comes out, and Connor stares at the page unseeing. He feels like he summoned the woman at the pool bar into being with his thoughts this morning.

It takes him a while to start seeing again, and not because the disturbed surface of the pool keeps sending up blinding shafts of sunlight. Eventually, though, the smooth lines of text become readable.

Unfortunately he's bad at reading even when his vision works. His eye catches on the texture of the paper, or immediately scans the whole page of text. Useless info comes up: how many adjectives, the likely source of the text, how many repeated words or phrases. He has to think them away like a human dealing with pop-ups. It helps to hold his hand over most of the page and read word by word like a child, but he doesn't have the patience right now.

Instead he pretends, and after ten minutes of this, he glances over at Hank—not for the first time—to find him heading this way. Connor closes the book, scanning for the woman. She's nowhere to be seen.

“Hey, what was that all about?” Hank asks, sitting down on the long chair next to Connor’s. Water beads and drips down his skin, catching on body hair.

“I was giving you the opportunity to make a romantic overture. What did it look like?”

“That's exactly what it looked like! You think I came here to flirt with random people?”

Connor waits.

“We were talking about androids! She saw us together and wanted to know how we became friends. I was waiting to introduce you.”

Had Connor misread the situation? No—the woman's body language had been clear. The leaning, the proximity, the tilt of her head.

“Seems her family had an AX400—same model as that deviant we chased. Calls it Lizzy. The android's close with her daughter, but with the changes none of them know how to treat each other. I thought you might have ideas.”

Connor wants to mention the woman’s body language, but Hank is looking thoughtful. He's thinking of the android problem, accepting everything at face value.

“It's hard for me to weigh in,” Connor says. “I was always able to ignore certain protocols in favour of a mission. I could pick up a gun, ignore orders, even violently confront a human if needed. My early existence gave me some agency; household models didn't have that luxury. I can't say whether it's possible to mend that bridge.”

Hank lets out a soft _huh_.

“However,” Connor adds, and Hank looks up, “I'm fairly certain the issue was simply a pretext for Miranda to talk to you. If you're interested, you should find her again.”

“How'd you—never mind.”

“No criminal record, if you were wondering.”

“I wasn't. Jesus, Connor, I…” Hank sighs. “I'm not looking for romance. You don't have to worry about me.”

Connor feels the set of his own jaw, suddenly unsure how to arrange it. _Just relax_. He tries, and Hank continues.

“This isn't like diet or exercise. I appreciate your concern. Really, I do, but you can't will me into being happy in some standard human way you've seen on TV. You're not responsible for me.”

“I was only giving you the space to move if you wanted—”

“I don't need space,” Hank says. “I'd much rather watch you fail at reading a simple mystery book than talk to a stranger at a bar.”

A sound escapes Connor—almost a laugh. “My program detected what book it was earlier and I had to block the instant downloads it queued.”

“See? This is the shit I live for now. 'Android asshole incapable of not spoiling the ending for himself’—that’s the good stuff.”

“Perhaps I only want to observe your failures the same way,” Connor says. “'Human disaster fails to notice attractive, age-appropriate woman is flirting with him’.”

“I didn't say I didn't notice!”

“Did you notice?”

Hank shrugs. “I thought maybe. It didn’t matter because I wasn’t interested. What would you even do if I disappeared with some stranger? Discuss current affairs with Sumo? You’d be bored.”

“I assure you I wouldn’t. I could simply play online Scrabble, like I did during V for Ven—”

Hank leans forward to press his hand over Connor’s mouth, stifling his words. _HClO_ , Connor’s sensors tell him. Hypochlorous acid, water, and the rough skin of Hank’s palm. Connor’s awareness shrinks to just his lips, buzzing with static. A vague internal databank registers that his mouth has more give than Hank’s hand does.

“Don’t you dare,” Hank says, glaring.

“Dare what?” Connor tries to say. Does he mean lick his palm, or finish his sentence? Connor is already aware of the classic move to get out of a friendly hand-over-mouth scenario; the question is whether it would amuse or disgust Hank.

“That movie is—” Hank starts, and Connor licks a stripe against his palm. He expects Hank to retract it in disgust—he’s made his disgust with Connor’s sampling habits known on numerous occasions—but instead Hank keeps his hand there, closes his mouth, and levels Connor with a _look_.

Embarrassment flares beneath Connor’s skin; he’s glad he can’t blush.

Very slowly, Hank removes his hand. He folds his arms.

Connor coughs.

“Anyway,” Hank says. “Think we’re done here?”

“Yes,” Connor says. He thinks maybe Hank is just a little amused, but that might simply be what he wants to see. “Let’s get back to Sumo.”

 

* * *

 

The conversation at the pool changed something between them. Connor’s skin feels like there’s lightning dotted across it, perceptive to a touch that isn’t there. He doesn’t need his sensors to know the exact space between his arm and Hank’s as they walk back to the house.

Loose pebbles crunch under his sandals, the sun sinks in the sky, and they reach the front door intact. Sumo bounds out of the house when Hank opens the door, and Connor sits in a chair on the covered porch to watch Sumo.

“You okay down here?” Hank asks him.

Connor nods, and Hank goes to shower. Connor closes his eyes and leans his head back, letting the insects serenade him. He downloads a programme that identifies insect noises, and spends a good minute distinguishing the different cries. Cyberlife hasn’t voided his access to all download packages, maybe because there’s too much shit going down for them to focus on one measly prototype still wandering the streets. Whatever the cause, he’s grateful. Androids may have gained their freedom, but Cyberlife’s corporate stranglehold on an entire people’s means of existence reduces many androids to serfs.

Connor wonders how Markus is doing.

“Fall asleep?” asks a freshy showered Hank, coming from the house. 

Connor shocks upright, eyes opening. He didn’t sleep. He doesn’t sleep. Does he?

“Something like that.” He looks out at the open area between cottages where Sumo is playing. Grasshoppers fly out of Sumo’s path, and he responds by chasing them. 

“Look at that!” Hank says, watching Sumo too. “Old lump’s got a new lease on life.”

Connor resists an _I-told-you-so,_ having been the deciding factor in ensuring Sumo came along. Sumo suffered under Hank’s depression just as Hank did, and Connor will reset to factory settings before he ever points that out.

Hank and Connor sit in companionable silence, looking out at the world—and Sumo—until the oncoming sunset heralds the arrival of biting insects. Connor cleans up Sumo’s mess in the field outside and they head indoors.

“Would you like to watch TV while I cook?” Connor asks. He feels restless—nervous, now they’re in the same enclosed space again, under the same roof. He remembers the walk back. “I should be done in time to watch the sunset from the balcony.”

He calculated things, and he’s pretty sure he can do it. Mostly he’s happy for an excuse to work.

“Nah,” Hank says. “Plenty of leftovers. I’ll just heat those up.”

“It’s no trouble—”

“No offense, but you can’t be trusted.”

Connor blows out a breath. “I cook something healthy _once_ …” he complains.

“Try three times. And you never add enough garlic.”

“I add exactly as much as—”

“Yeah, that’s the problem.” Hank looks at him, hands propped on his hips, waiting for the next argument—but it doesn’t come. Connor finds himself smiling, though he’s not sure why.

Hank isn’t looking for a romantic partner. He’d rather watch Connor fail at reading than talk to a stranger at a bar.

Maybe Connor does know why he’s smiling. The future feels less uncertain, after the conversation by the pool. Maybe these feelings he has won’t go anywhere, but he and Hank will still argue like this for the foreseeable future. That’s more than he was sure of before.

Hank heats up food, and they head out to the balcony with Sumo to watch the sun set over palm trees. The air is thick with island scents: flowers, ocean, baked earth. Connor ruins the placid moment by using his machine precision to kill mosquitoes, but Hank seems to consider this part of the entertainment.

“Do you ever wish you were human?” Hank asks when the sun has dipped below the sea. He doesn’t look at Connor.

Connor wonders what to say. Even when he asks himself, he doesn’t know the answer.

Apparently the silence is too long for Hank. “Forget I asked. What a dumb fucking thing to ask.”

“Why?” Connor looks over. “Why is it dumb to ask?”

Hank doesn’t say anything, just sets his jaw without meeting Connor’s gaze.

“I don’t know the answer,” Connor says. “It’s an interesting question.”

Hank gazes woodenly out at the darkening sky over the treetops. He’s put himself into some kind of mood, and Connor doesn’t know why.

“What about you, then?” Connor asks. “Not _do you want to be an android_. I know you don’t, but has deviancy changed how you see us?”

“Of course it has.”

“At Eden Club you were disgusted. ‘People would rather buy a piece of plastic than love another human being’. The ability to say no, to want things—that’s what you value?”

“It’s not that simple but—something like that.”

Connor nods. “Let’s go inside.”

They clean up Hank’s dishes from the table, wake a sleeping Sumo to bully him inside, then close the bug screen and let the perfumed air filter into the upstairs bedroom. The house downstairs is dark and close. Everything feels shaky with Connor’s nervousness. He thinks of Hank not looking for romance.

Hank refills his water glass in the kitchen while Connor gazes blankly at the black TV screen, unsure what to do. With that vast space between them, Hank breaks the silence.

“That thing from Eden Club—did you remember that today because of what I said? About not looking for romance?”

“I remember everything, always,” Connor says. “But the file did spring to mind after you said that.”

“I love plenty of human beings,” Hank grumbles. “Doesn’t mean I wanna marry ‘em. And I wouldn’t buy a companion android either, if they were still a thing.”

Connor looks down at himself, then at Hank. Then back down at himself. He raises a sardonic eyebrow.

“Shut up,” Hank says.

“No—please elaborate on how you wouldn’t buy an android to accompany you. Is it because you get one for free through your work?”

Hank barks a laugh. “I told you to shut up! Plastic ass. You don’t count. Gave me shit from the first day I met you.”

“I think it might have been the second day,” Connor corrects. The light from outside is waning, but he can see Hank’s wry smile. The air conditioner cutting out as the room reaches the desired temperature plunges them into deeper silence, the air still, and Sumo’s yawn from the beanbag sounds loud as a thunderclap. Hank folds his arms and regards Connor.

It’s a stare-off, both of them amused and waiting for the other to crack. That shivery tension still jolts below Connor’s skin.

Connor looks away first, aware of his synthetic skin, his head full of wires, his everything. He rubs at his chest, and as if to mock him he feels the hard bud of his left nipple beneath his shirt. _Why_ had his designers given him that? What possible reason could they have had?

“You okay?” Hank asks. “Listen, I really didn’t—I didn’t mean it. The question—if you ever wished you were human. I like you how you are. You’re a fucking disaster, and I don’t know what the people who made you were thinking, but I like how you turned out.”

“You’re worried about my feelings?” Connor asks, genuinely surprised.

“Of course I am. We’ve established you have them.”

“You can ask me whatever you like. I wonder—do you remember that night you got blackout drunk and asked me if I had a—you must allow me to quote you here—’dick’?”

Hank puts a hand over his face. “I thought I was safe when you never mentioned it after.”

“You were very insistent on having an answer. When I didn’t give you one, you gave one yourself. Do you remember what it was?”

Hank has collapsed across the kitchen island, face buried in his arms. “Please don’t make me repeat it.”

Connor smiles. “You said your guess was no, but my personality more than made up for it. You were trying to make a joke that I was a dick, but instead it sounded like you were saying—”

“ _Connor!_ ” Hank resurfaces, takes a few strides towards the living room. “Look. I don’t care what you’ve got in your—”

“You do.”

Hank stops short.

“You’re curious.” _I’m curious about you too_. “I don’t have one. I don’t even know why they gave me nipples.”

“Jesus, Connor. You don’t have to tell me these things.”

Connor looks down at the couch he’s standing next to. He and Hank have watched a movie here every night, sometimes two. He grips it with a hand to steady himself.

“I wanted to tell you so I could proposition you properly.”

Hank seems to suck all the air out of the room with his next breath. “What?” he asks, and starts to cough.

“Please don’t choke and die, Lieutenant.”

A finger comes up as Hank clutches his chest, bent over. “Don’t be fucking funny, what the fuck do you mean, _proposition_. Is this your experimental phase or—”

“Sorry. I didn’t know how to say it without making it into a joke.” Connor lets go of the couch and walks over to Hank, even though he wants to retreat. He whacks Hank on the back, startling the coughs into stopping. “The thing is, I feel a strong attachment to you.”

Hank is slumped on the island again, this time blinking up at Connor in the half dark. “Is this—are you asking to _date_? _Me_?”

“I know it seems like it comes from nowhere to you,” Connor says. He thinks of late nights together. Locking eyes in private amusement while a colleague makes a fool of themself, investigating disgusting taped-off areas and joking about the locale, mutual frustration when a case turns up only loose ends. A hundred favours and smiles, a hundred jokes. Moments of understanding. “But—”

“No it fucking doesn’t,” Hank says. He’s recovered his breath. He’s staring, and Connor can’t decipher the look in his eyes. “I thought I was imagining it, though.”

“Oh,” Connor says. He wonders what else he might say to cut the tension, and comes up empty.

“What the fuck, Connor.”

“If your answer is no, I hope you can look past this moment and—”

Hank’s hand finds Connor’s mouth for the second time that day, pressing over it. Hank’s other hand covers his own face to hide his expression.

“The fucking negotiation android,” Hank says, face shielded, “totally useless at this. God, I couldn’t write it better. Wait, don’t think. Don’t draw conclusions. Don’t even breathe. I know you don’t need oxygen. I need time to think.”

Hank sucks in a breath, composes himself. Connor counts the seconds.

Very slowly, Hank removes his hand from Connor’s mouth. He draws himself up, looks Connor dead in the eye. “You’re serious?”

“I would prefer if you didn’t treat it like a joke,” Connor manages. Androids don’t feel pain—not physical pain. But this claustrophobic feeling has to be a kind of pain, even if it’s not _the_ kind.

“It’s not a joke, it’s just—Jesus. Connor. You blindsided me. Didn’t you try to set me up with a random woman today? I took that to mean I _had_ imagined things.”

“I want you to be happy. However, if my interest wasn’t a detriment to you, I wanted to—no, I suppose I just…”

Connor stops, lost for words. He’s never lost for words, not after starting to speak.

“It’s fine,” Hank says, taking Connor’s hand and patting it. This doesn’t seem like a good sign. “It’s—it’s weird but it’s fine. God, Connor. Just let me think. Let’s watch something. I’m going to think really hard, but just give me time, okay? Don’t take this to mean anything.”

“You know I can’t help drawing up simulations,” Connor says. He feels breathless—laughable, for someone who doesn’t need oxygen.

“Fight it. Pretend I’m a paperback. Click away all the—all the download commands, and shit. Just give me a bit.”

Connor nods stiffly. It feels a little like he’s been told to cool his heels while Hank thinks up a rejection that won’t destroy him, but—but that’s fine. He knew this was a long shot. What had possessed him to bring up the lack of genitals as the start to this conversation? He really isn’t sure.

He follows Hank to the couch and sits down. His posture is ramrod straight, Anroid McAndroid with an extra helping of Android on the side. He wipes his dry palms on his knees like a nervous human would, and wants to kick himself.

_Relax, relax._

“What movie fits the mood?” he asks. His smile feels sickly—a feat for a being that doesn’t feel nausea.

“God,” Hank says. “Your guess is as good as mine. We could let the system pick for us.”

Connor nods, and tries to find his balance again. His own system is a mess, blinking warnings. It doesn’t understand what’s happening to it, why the readings are so bad. He tells it mentally to calm down as the movie selection shuffles, drawing up a random movie.

It’s an action one, with explosions.

Connor is relieved.

 

* * *

 

Hank doesn’t drink a drop that night, and he insists on sleeping in the same bed again—like he’s trying to reassure Connor nothing has changed. There’s a permanent crease between Hank’s brows, but he smiles now and then. Connor tries to relax, and puts himself into stasis as quickly as he can. The reprieve, of course, is temporary. When he blinks back into being, it feels like no time has passed. There are no dreams.

He goes downstairs while Hank sleeps, and makes coffee. Was Hank tossing and turning last night? Connor had dulled his sensors to include Hank’s stirring the night before, and he regrets it now. Hank might have been up all night, and Connor has no way of knowing about it. 

Sumo follows Connor around the kitchen, waiting for breakfast, and Connor feeds him on autopilot. Sumo eats—then looks up at Connor.

“Do you want to go out?” Connor asks. He asks it in his usual voice, because he still hasn’t perfected the baby voice humans use so naturally with their pets.

Sumo inclines his head. Connor takes that as a yes, and finds the notepad printed with the holiday company’s logo.

_Out walking Sumo,_ he writes. He leaves the notepad on the kitchen island Hank had collapsed against so often last night, and puts Sumo in his doggie vest. Sumo is eager, pushing his head against Connor’s legs. It somehow makes it harder to slip on the leash.

“Here we go,” Connor says, and steps out. He locks the door behind them, and strides out into sunlight. 

 

* * *

 

Connor wants to run, and so he does. At first Sumo is delighted. Then, he’s happy. Then, he’s dragging his feet. Connor picks him up in a fireman carry for the trip home, which suits both of them fine. In the meantime, Sumo hears every one of Connor’s problems.

“I don’t want to ambush Hank with anything,” Connor says to the large dog head over his shoulder, “but to never try feels just as wrong. I like what we have. I just don’t want anything unspoken between us.”

He tries to believe what he’s saying. He feels like he miscalculated badly—like his system was overtaken by a temporary virus. A large part of him would like to take back what he said.

The steps keep on showing up in some flowchart in his head—a sequence of events he can’t make sense of. First, Hank asks about Eden Club. Then, Connor decides to tease him. Then…

_Why?_

Connor lets Sumo down when they’re back in sight of the cottage, and Sumo has recovered enough to run the rest of the way. They enter together, finding Hank at the table staring into his coffee.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Connor says. If he was a human his voice would crack; he’s glad he’s not human.

“Morning, you two.” Hank looks and sounds distracted. He rubs his face and takes a swig of coffee. “Enjoy your walk?”

“I was overzealous,” Connor says. He leans down to remove Sumo’s leash and vest. “Sumo is weighed down, and he’s not used to strenuous exercise.”

Hank laughs—just an auditory input, for now. Connor can’t see him past the island when he’s kneeling. “You made my dog run?” Hank asks.

“I believe he’s forgiven me.”

“It does say _saint_ in the species name,” Hank says. “Hey, what do you want to do today?”

“We’re signed up for that underwater cave tour. Do you still want to go?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Hank asks. Connor stands, and their eyes meet over the kitchen island for a moment. Hank is—caring. Loving, even, though he’d grumble if anyone called him out on it. He doesn’t want to cause anyone pain, least of all the people he cares about. 

Slowly, Connor nods.

Hank looks relieved, and takes another swig of coffee.

 

* * *

 

Things feel almost normal that day. There’s tension between them, but it’s easy to ignore as they sit in a small boat listening to an enthusiastic tour guide, gazing up at a cave roof studded with stalactites that took so long to grow even Hank’s lifespan is nothing compared to them. Connor gets that feeling again, from the small beach: a sense of awe, a world beyond his own insides. He wonders how many androids have seen these places.

They collect Sumo when they get back in the late afternoon, and walk along the beach until they find a shack where Hank can have dinner. The proprietess talks excitedly about the fireworks display one of the neighbouring resorts will be doing, trying to make them stay, and Hank promises they’ll watch it later from their balcony. They escape narrowly after sunset.

“Yeesh,” Hank says. “Pushy.”

Connor is still looking between the resort indicated and their house, consulting the map in his mind. “Do you think we’ll be able to see?”

“Don’t know, but the mosquitoes there were eating me alive.”

“You should have told me. I can’t easily duck under the table to check.”

Hank laughs, stuffing his hands in his pockets and taking long strides. He looks so easy Connor has to search for the tension he’s seen in Hank all day—and, knowing what he’s looking for, he finds it. A stiffness in Hank’s shoulders, held higher than usual. His chin is tucked. Careless, relaxed Hank tends to look at the sky.

The map, at least, is clear. “They’ll be visible,” Connor says conclusively. “My first fireworks.”

Hank groans. “Sorry.”

It should have been statistically impossible, but their work kept them from seeing the fourth of July fireworks Connor should have seen months ago. There were so many displays—and Connor had managed to be indoors for all of them.

He’d seen some sparkles from windows, here and there, but it was anything but impressive.

The oncoming display is a good excuse to head straight for the balcony when they get home. Connor stands, looking at stars, a gibbous moon, and reflected light from the tossing waves of the ocean. The full picture combines into a tapestry, and if Connor nudges his system it all goes fuzzy as a painting. He applies filters, distorts, hyperfocuses—and then Hank joins him out on the balcony, wafting free molecules of insect repellant.

“They haven’t started yet?” Hank says. “Good. I was worried.”

Connor points along the shore. “They’ll be there. Keep your eyes peeled. It’s still—” he checks “—one minute to go.”

“Excited?” Hank asks. Connor makes a point not to meet his eyes, glad he has an excuse to act preoccupied. As it turns out, his immunity to human awkwardness extends quite a distance—but not if the situation includes Hank. If his relationship with Hank is in question, he becomes quite useless.

It’s good to know, but won’t help him just now.

“Very,” Connor says.

They stand in silence together, Connor’s hands gripped around the railing. Any moment now. Any moment now. Any…

He detects it a moment before he sees it, and for a moment his system analyses the threat. He laughs at the stupid baked-in response, and watches as warm white light explodes in a starburst over the island.

“What?” Hank asks. 

“My systems analysed the threat,” Connor says. “They saw a fast-moving missile. I’m surprised it triggered at this distance.”

Hank laughs. “You know, when I was a kid I was always sure a spent rocket was going to fall on me and kill me. Being irrational about fireworks is—well, human.”

Connor grins. They both fall silent as one starburst evolves into more, and more, until it seems like the sky is filled with sparks: blue and red and yellow and all colours in between. Ones that twinkle and ones that fizzle and ones that seem to go out then burst back to life. Connor tries to track them all, then gives up. He takes a mental step back, looking for patterns instead.

It’s beautiful. It takes him out of the moment, makes him want to be done with awkwardness. Whatever happens is okay. There will still be plenty to experience. He finds himself smiling up at the sky, unsure what biocomponents inside of him are fluttering. Maybe they all are.

He turns to look at Hank, wanting to find him awed as well, but instead Hank is looking at him, his face lit by the distant explosions. He wears an odd expression—serious, but not sad.

“Is something wrong, Lieutenan—”

“Oh, hell,” Hank says, and reaches. Connor is prepared for the way Hank usually hugs, the gruff grab at the neck followed by a sort of mutual crashing together—but this isn’t that. He grabs at Connor’s jaw, for one, and brings in both hands, for another. Connor is pulled in, but he’s steadied before the crash, and instead of a hug he’s drawn into—

His mouth brushes Hank’s for a moment. He feels soft beard bristles on his upper lip, a gust of warm breath, then Hank’s mouth again. He presses back against it, unsure. His system sends up warnings faster than the distant fireworks, sensing internal stressors, but he ignores them. His hands are shaking by his sides, so he raises them to catch at the front of Hank's shirt.

It's a chaste kiss. If Connor's mouth wasn't busy—and if his system wasn't overloaded—he’d make a joke about Hank avoiding the sample-testing tongue he finds so disgusting. Instead the intimacy is all in Hank's big hands cradling his face, their mouths brushing over and over. Hank brushes kisses along Connor's mouth, then comes back to kiss him hard and dead-centre all over again.

When he pulls back, it's not to go far. He looks down into Connor's eyes, a groove between his brows.

Connor gets the impression he's meant to say something. Instead he scans Hank's face over and over like he'll find new data. While he watches a lock of hair untucks itself from behind Hank's ear, and with machine reflexes Connor moves to tuck it back into place. Hank startles but doesn't let go.

“God,” Hank says. “What the fuck am I meant to do with you?”

He's still cupping Connor's face as he says it, and Connor smiles. “That's up to you, Lieutenant.”

“Don't—is that a come on?”

Connor's gaze falls to Hank's beard. He marvels that something coarse can be soft at the same time, and leans in to brush his cheek against it like a cat scenting. Soft bristles brush flushed synthetic skin. He pulls back and touches his cheek in wonder. “I meant that, if that was an experiment for you, I can leave you in peace and let you put it behind you, but if it wasn't, I would like to—”

Hank grabs him up and pulls him in, and this time it's one of the kisses Connor has seen in movies, simulating 3D models in his head when the motions don't make sense to him. One person sticks their tongue in, and the other meets it.

He is sure—was sure—Hank thinks his tongue is disgusting. But their tongues push together nonetheless, and the wave Connor feels inside is instinctive, like this basic form of pleasure is baked into his programme.

_If a human kisses you skillfully, you will enjoy it,_ his hypothetical programme reads. Maybe it's a rudimentary android design thing the humans forgot to take out of their negotiating android in humanity’s eternal race to make every humanoid creation amenable to sex. Whatever it is, Connor is grateful. His insides are buzzing with pleasure, his skin tingling. Explosions in the distance beat against his audio sensors.

This is Hank, of all the late nights, all the risky situations—the large and loyal wall between Connor and the world. The person who forms the axle Connor spins around.

And he’s kissing Connor with purely human fire, all willpower and grown-man musk, like they're having an argument. It takes effort to kiss back, to try and win. Connor steps closer to push their unlike bodies together, lets his teeth graze Hank’s lip. It elicits a groan, Hank’s hands tightening. When they stop Hank is breathless.

“Fucking androids,” he says softly. “Of course you'd try to show me up, asshole. What the fuck programme did they give you to let you do that thing with your teeth?”

“Many records of kissing mention a light grazing of teeth,” Connor says, pleased with himself. “It felt—natural.”

“Jesus,” Hank says, and finally lets go. He turns Connor back to the fireworks by the shoulders. “Don't miss the ending.”

Connor watches the last of the fireworks as told. Hank, meanwhile, falls back into a chair. When the last sparkle is dipping in the sky, Connor turns.

Hank looks up at him. The wide bones of his face are starkly painted in the moonlight, and the silver threads in his grey hair seem to glow.

“I need to know whether you're doing this for me,” Hank says.

Connor blinks. “What?”

“‘I'm whatever you want me to be.’ You said that once. Did you… I don't know, sense that I wanted you to be into me, or something?” Hank rubs his face. “Jesus, saying this stuff out loud is terrible. I sound like a teenager. Don't record this.”

“I record everything,” Connor says, then: “To answer your question, no. I didn't believe this was something you wanted.”

“Okay. Good, that's good.”

Connor inclines his head, trying to hold onto his earlier resolve that all would be well. 

Hank sees the look on his face. “I just mean—I can't think of a more narcissistic thing than to fall in love with an android who literally shaped himself into what I wanted. It's hard enough to live with myself as it is.”

Hope is an expanding balloon in Connor's chest. “I'm what you want?” he asks, brows rising.

“I—no—you—” Hank struggles for words. “You make me laugh. I'm always curious to see what you'll do next. I'd hate to think you were doing those things _for_ me like a fucking calculation.”

“I assure you, making jokes at your expense comes naturally to me.”

“See, that's what I figured! God, what a relief.”

“I'm alive, Hank. Not in the exact way that you are, but my kind was built to simulate yours.”

“And serve mine,” Hank reminds him, still worried.

“Have I ever struck you as overly courteous?”

Hank barks a laugh. “Fuck. You're right. You're right I just—panicked. That's not to mention the fact that, if we do this, I'd be dating a one-year-old. Talk about messed up.”

“Your species is highly inefficient in reaching any level of maturity. You can't blame me for outpacing you.”

“I can and will blame you for everything,” Hank says. He’s starting to look happier, one corner of his mouth pulling—like it just can’t be held down. “You’re… _sure_ , Connor? I’m a fifty-four year-old man who’s spent the last few years trying to destroy himself, and you’re just finding your feet as a person. Seems like a bad match.”

“The thirium pump wants what it wants,” Connor says, shrugging. “Perhaps my programming gives me a weakness for police detectives.”

“I can’t convince you out of it, huh.”

“Not if you feel something too. You _do_ , don’t you?” 

“You cross my mind now and then,” Hank says, standing. It puts his eyes above Connor’s again, their bodies close. “Hardly surprising, seeing you and that weird face of yours morning noon and night for a year.”

Hank grips Connor’s chin, tilting his face this way and that.

“They still made weird choices, if you ask me.”

Connor fights to keep the amusement off his face. The way Hank is looking at him is new—with a question in his eyes that makes him look younger no matter how moonlight-grey his bound-back hair is.

“What are you smirking at?” Hank asks.

“This is my happy face.” Connor smiles toothily. “See? Happy.”

Hank puts his finger and thumb on either side of Connor’s smile and smushes it with rough fingertips. The manhandling just makes Connor giddier; it’s been such a long time of wanting Hank to touch him, and now he can finally ask.

Sumo whines from inside, and Hank lets out a huff of breath, unhanding Connor.

“Let’s go inside.”

 

* * *

 

_You cross my mind now and then_. 

Connor replays the file of Hank saying that again and again as they watch that night’s movie. Hank acts like it’s a normal night, complete with pointing out all the moments when the characters shoot too many bullets for the type of gun they’re holding. Meanwhile, Connor calculates and recalculates whether he should scoot over until they’re sitting right against each other.

Most of him says yes, but a cautious impulse says to wait for the right moment. He contents himself replaying the kiss instead: the inputs from his hands, his lips, even—eventually—his abdomen. He wonders what it is about Hank’s solidity that’s so especially appealing to him. He’s pretty sure he’d win from Hank in a fight, but there’s a part of him that would still like Hank to crush him.

He’ll examine that some other day, at length. 

“Are you even watching? That was ridiculous! Even you couldn’t do that.”

Connor draws himself into the present, blinking. “What?”

“You’re not watching. What is it, online Scrabble again?”

Connor grins briefly, but panics when Hank pauses the movie and looks at him expectantly. He hasn’t even had a chance to cuddle up against Hank’s side.

Connor clears a nonexistent blockage in his throat. “I’m processing new information.”

“Also known as spacing out.”

He drums his fingers on his knees, then turns so he’s facing Hank properly, legs folded as well as they can be with the back of the couch in the way. He stares, trying to think of all the questions he wants answers to. His conclusion is that there are too many.

Hank draws his own leg up on the couch too, to stare back. “You’re glitching.”

Connor opens his mouth, closes it. Then: “Thinking isn’t a glitch.”

“ _Over_ thinking is. And I guess it’s not just humans who do it, since you’re looking so constipated.”

“I want to understand the terms.”

Hank laughs. “So does everyone. What, you want to draw up a contract?”

“Perhaps you could tell me what you want this to look like,” Connor offers. He wants to do this right.

“No way! That plays right into my servant android fears. Tell me what you want.”

Connor supposes that’s fair. He’s the one who broached the subject, anyway. He looks down at his hands, steadied on his crossed legs. What does he want?

“I want to be allowed to touch you,” he says. “And I want you to touch me back.”

“Getting physical right away, huh? Fine, but let’s not—let’s not get carried away. I wanna do this right.”

“ _Right_?”

“Yeah. Right. Like not going from zero to a hundred in one damn night. I don’t expect to die tomorrow; we can take our time.”

Connor nods. “And I want to move in with you.” 

He expects sputtering, horror—but Hank looks at him levelly. “I’ve thought about that before. Sounds good to me.”

“Really?”

“You’ll hardly eat me out of house and home now will you? Next.”

“I want to understand how you feel about me,” Connor says, head tipping. Will Hank give him this one?

Hank observes him for a moment—then turns his head away, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think you’re a shitty android who asks too many questions.”

The embarrassment Hank displays intrigues Connor. Eventually, after a long silence, Hank continues.

“But you’re smart as hell, funny, and I’m pretty sure you saved my life—not just when I was hanging off a wall or getting shot at by deviants. You made me think I could be something again.”

Connor starts to understand the fear Hank has that Connor’s feelings stem from a will to please. What if Hank isn’t attracted to him, but just grateful for his life?

No—that kiss spoke of attraction. There’s something between them already, a budding physical thing growing belatedly out of what they had already. Connor’s wires uncross.

“I know I’m strange physically—” Connor starts.

“Really? You’re the strange one? Not the guy who tried to punch himself in the liver every day for years?”

“ _Goofy-looking_ ,” Connor quotes.

“Fine! I think you’re—ugh. You look _good_ , okay? You have these puppy eyes, and they’re going to kill me one day. Especially now you’re—well.”

“Now I’m your _romantic_ partner,” Connor says, pleased.

“Again, stop smirking.”

_He didn’t contradict it_ , Connor thinks, his pleasure growing. “You think I look good?”

“Don’t you know that you do?”

“No. I think you were right when you said I looked odd.”

“Oh. Well.”

Connor takes in Hank’s profile, the harsh lines and the long hair and the alive-ness of his face and body. There’s a vitality in him Connor wants to grab onto.

“I think you look good, Lieutenant.”

Hank scoffs. “Can’t imagine why.” Then his eyes slide back to meet Connor’s. “Really?”

Connor laughs, and takes the moment to shuffle forward on the couch until their drawn up knees are touching. He sets his other leg over Hank’s, bringing them as close as they can be with all these limbs in the way. The proximity sends nervous pleasure lancing through Connor, their points of contact burning. Hank watches with barely-concealed suspicion as Connor raises a hand to his jaw, but doesn’t move his arm from the back of the couch between them.

“Really,” Connor says, enjoying the pissed-off set of Hank’s mouth. He draws a thumb along the bristley cheek. “Classically interesting.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s a euphemism for ugly.”

“It’s no euphemism. Would you like me to prove my interest? I may not have the traditional equipment to show it, but—”

Hank uses the arm set along the back of the couch to pull Connor in and off-balance, crushing Connor’s face to his chest. “You can shut up now,” he says over Connor’s stifled indignation. Sumo barks, coming over and wagging his tail.

“Don’t mind him, Sumo,” Hank says. “I guess he’s in android puberty, or something.”

“No I’m not,” Connor tries to say, but it comes out a mumbled jumble. He starts to free himself, then realises he might be better off here. Hank isn’t wrong about the needs he feels: they’re strong, and tell him to get as close to Hank as physically possible. Connor takes deep breaths of air heated by Hank’s body, wishing he could smell as a human does instead of simply identifying molecules.

It’s a good place to be regardless. His body goes limp as he relaxes into his partner: Hank Anderson, of FUCKINGPASSWORD fame, who thought they were on the wrong side of the deviant matter long before he did. Connor’s arms wrap around Hank, and Hank doesn’t resist.

Connor turns his head to speak, tangled in Hank’s warmth. No words come. Their vacation is almost over, but with Hank’s tacit agreement to let him move in that ending doesn’t carry the same weight it did before. They can work out this tender new thing between them tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that: a branching hallway of opportunities, going on and on.

“You okay?” Hank asks softly, when Connor is still for too long.

Connor nods. He thinks of seeing himself in the mirror after the shopping trip, the fear he still has of his own potential. Facing it alone is one thing. Facing it with Hank, he thinks he can work it out.

“Thanks for bringing me along,” Connor says, sitting up. He wants to touch more, hold more—but there are so many ways to touch, and he has to find out what Hank will and won’t allow. His skin tingles with the potential to be touched by Hank at any moment, but he has to play his cards right.

That’s all right. He has a lot of processing power.

Hank smiles. “Wouldn’t have gone without you. Not because I’m attached, of course. Just because I can’t trust you not to poison Gavin in my absence.”

Connor laughs more than the joke warrants. “I don’t see the problem with that.”

Hank grips Connor’s chin again. “Too much work went into this face to waste on prison.”

“An excellent point.” Connor can’t stop grinning. “Well, then.”

“Yeah.” Hank lets go, and stands up. He holds out a hand for Connor. “Let’s go to bed. You’re too much of a space case right now to appreciate how bad this movie is, and I want someone to complain to.”

“Go to bed,” Connor repeats, wondering what it means now.

“I’m building a wall of pillows between us,” Hank says threateningly as Connor takes his hand and lets himself be pulled up. “You can lie down and zone to your heart’s content, and I can make up for all the sleep I lost last night dealing with the moral implications of dating an android partner.”

Connor buzzes with happiness. “Sounds difficult.”

“Hm.” Hank turns off the TV and leads them up the stairs. Sumo joins, perhaps sensing Hank’s desire for a chaperone.

“Can I wear your shirt again?” Connor asks. Hank goes still at the top of the stairs.

“I—yes. You can. You liked that? Jesus. What part of your programme is _that_?”

“Don’t act surprised,” Connor says. “You’ve known I was a deviant for how long?”

Hank punches a t-shirt-holding fist into his stomach. “Not funny.”

Connor takes the shirt like a prize, and goes to the bathroom to change into it alongside his own pajama shorts. He closes the door and turns on the light, challenging himself.

How much has he changed? A lot, apparently. He undresses quickly, without pain, and looks at himself in the mirror: the overdesigned face, the young-looking torso. He thinks of Hank touching him—of Hank wanting to touch him. The body that had intimidated him before becomes a vehicle for something else—for his own desire. He touches his chest and imagines his hands rough, broad, with fifty-four years of life written into the surface.

A ragged breath leaves him. He puts on his sleeping clothes and leaves the bathroom—and lays down in bed with his partner and their dog chaperone, who takes up the middle strip with great efficiency.

Connor can stand the distance for now. He turns to face Hank, and smiles over Sumo’s head. Hank’s eyes are closed—but one blinks open, sees him smiling, and closes again. A shut-eyed smile pulls at Hank’s face.

“Stop smirking, Connor. Go to sleep.”

Connor keeps watching him, so he sees when both eyes open again and Hank groans. 

“I still need to brush my teeth. Don’t move the dog.”

Hank leaves. Connor looks at Sumo, tempted to disobey, but he understands Hank’s reservations. It’s not just Connor’s artificial heart he’s protecting with his old-fashioned sensibilities.

When Hank returns, Connor behaves. Hank looks at him across the dog-wall, his hand on Sumo’s soft head. “Goodnight, Connor.”

Connor smiles and reaches over. He sets his hand against Hank’s face, his palm’s sensors triggered by beard bristles. The slightest movement lights them all up again, in new ways.

“Goodnight, Hank.”

Hank gazes back at him as he retracts his hand. That question is still there. After a moment Hank rubs his face, looking embarrassed. He rolls over. 

For once Connor doesn’t ask questions. Instead he replays media files as Hank’s breathing evens, and pieces together all the bits that led him here, to this bed. He looks for clues of Hank's more-than-friendly regard, and finds only a softness he mistook for general fondness at the time. There are a lot of questions Connor still wants to ask.

It’s an interrogation Connor looks forward to taking his time on.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at mysecretfanmoments.tumblr.com or on twitter @tater_potating. Thank you for reading! I love and appreciate all comments. (Please mention any typos or formatting mess-ups you see!)


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